


Ain't It Fun

by syrenhug



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Bullying, Casual Sex, Genderqueer Character, Homophobia, Slurs, simon is androgyne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenhug/pseuds/syrenhug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a bully. Simon would know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't It Fun

**Author's Note:**

> This is old. And there was supposed to be a part two, but I just. Yeah.
> 
> It sucks. Bye.

Monday morning.

Fluorescent lights, too bright.

Shaky hands, lazy glances. Too early and it's Monday.

You hate Mondays. Another week of déjà vu.

"Hey, faggot." You hear the hiss but ignore it. Maybe you can get out of it today. But they always find a way to trap you, to make everything tougher then has to be.

You face forward. The teacher's lecture is being disregarded because everyone hates Mr. Henry for some reason. You think he's interesting. And he's the only teacher you know here that actually tries to help you. Everyone else looks away. Like maybe if they don't see it, it didn't happen.

There's a poke to your back. You doodle on the corner of your paper. Another poke. You try to focus on Mr. Henry's voice.

"Writer's like Edgar Allen Poe are revered now but in the days they wrote, they were looked down upon."

His hair is messy, and it looks like he hasn't shaved in months but he really does try. So when there's the feel of nails raking your neck you keep silent and write words down. People are laughing behind you.

"I know you can hear me."

You wasted four months hating him when he started. At first, you stood up to him but it was useless. No matter what, he did it anyway.

"You have ugly skin. I bet you don't even bathe." Someone snorts and the nails dig in harder. It hurts, but not as much as the words. The words always hurt a little more.

"Or maybe your dad hits you. I wouldn't be surprised. You're disappointment, anyone could see that."

Your dad doesn't speak to you. Neither does your mom. Sometimes you wish they would beat you and then you feel sick because there are kids around the world going through hell and you're _wishing for it._

Your neck is burning now. You suppose there's blood. There's always blood on Mondays.

* * *

_Ignorance is bliss and I'd trade it for it a kiss._

_There's sanguinity in dying._

_And, oh, I know you're trying. But not hard enough._

_On my soul it reads in fine print,_ tread lightly here.

_I guess you didn't look and just took._

_Tore the wings off butterflies when you knew they needed them to fly. Spent the teaching of truth learning how to lie._

_And, oh, I know that you're trying. But hope is always dying._

_Though not hard enough._

* * *

Tuesdays are fearless.

Obvious trips, the turning of tricks. It's poker and he's all in.

You're walking to Chemistry, cursing the fact that you have to take it at all. But you're a junior. And your grades are well enough that it's a possibility you could graduate early. You have enough credits for it.

You scratch your arm. It's irritated because _he_ slathered something on it first thing this morning and you have no fucking idea what it was.

Someone grabs your arm from behind and pulls. You protest, but they drag you along until you're in front of the janitor's closet. They shove you inside. Close the door. 

"Let me out." You already know the door is locked because you heard it click. There's a rustling noise behind you.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

You stay by the door. "Do I know you?"

"No."

"Why are - " It hits you suddenly. There are chemicals in here. Things that could land you in the hospital for a large amount of time or kill you. Neither sounds great. "Oh."

The person's voice is apologetic. Because being sorry is totally going to make up for it. This is probably his initiation into the popular group. You swallow. The bitterness threatens to choke you.

"Look, just take what I give you. If you don't I have to give you something that'll make you pass out."

He hands you a cup with a shaky hand and you wish you could see his face. Or maybe you don't. You don't want to spend time feeling sorry for his situation, for his desperation. When did cruelty become the new thing?

You toss back whatever's in the cup and sink down on the floor. The liquid churns, burns in your stomach.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

 "Why this?"

"I don't want to end up like you." And for some reason you can't help but laugh. Because you can't help but understand. You wouldn't want to end up like yourself either, if you had a choice.

* * *

You were always different. You played with cars and liked basketball, but pink didn't repel you and nail polish was something you experimented with. You didn't identify with either boy or girl. It had taken years but you'd found the word for it. Androgynous. People had trouble with it, but it didn't make it any less true.

You liked people. And you were human. But society didn't believe in both or neither, it was either A or C, true or false. Pick one that applies.

You want to be mad at it but can't. People needed the safety of a label, a category. You get it.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon. School is over in ten minutes.

Calculated Algebra, broken desks. The teacher is tired and nobody notices how fake her smile is.

You have three classes with him and this one is the worst. He's bored. There's no one to keep him busy.

And your stomach hurts. A lot.

Sometimes you hope that he'll notice the things nobody does. The grey in your eyes, the way you can write with both hands. You practically beg for him to see you the way everyone hopes to seen; like they're important. Even for a second.

But he doesn't. He stares, amber eyes idly hidden by his long lashes. He's model worthy and he knows it. You glance at him, curling a hand around you stomach. He realizes. Smirks.

When the teacher stops talking, he speaks. Two words. And you waste another five minutes hating him.

"You wish."

* * *

Written on a napkin in red pen:

_I want to suffocate in bleach_

_Scrub me out and dye me pink_

_Pink inside, flawless skin_

_Wash the dirtiness away, stuff the poison in_

_I want to die clean_

_And I smell it, I feel the sting_

* * *

Thursdays. Lunchtime.

Empty stomachs, empty girls. Shocker; the cookies are good.

He is nicer in the only way a person like him can be nice. He only makes fun of you.

You walk past his table which you hate but it's the only way to get to out of the cafeteria and into the hallway without alerting one of the lunch ladies. They don't care, really, but you prefer avoiding issues.

"Hey." You know the tone that's reserved for you but keep going. Maybe you can -

"I know about your sister." You freeze.

Your sister works in the porn industry. She's twenty-five and you haven't talked to her in years but you're well aware of her profession. How does he know?

You shake it off. He's just fucking with you. Like always.

But then he's saying something else and the words don't roll off like usual and you register the act of walking back towards him and _clawing something_ until there are hands holding you steady. You are a wave crashing against the sand. But you're being restrained and you don't understand why. You don't understand why.

* * *

_I wish I could touch you. Not on the skin but somewhere inside, where the poison is._

_I wish I could scar you, reach in deep. Play with your heart like animals play with their meat._

_I wish I could please you. Earn a gold star._

_I wish I could hurt you and I don't know why. All I know is you are vase I'd like to break but you got there first. I'm on the floor._

_I wish you could see me. You are blind._

_That's all right. I'll be fine._

_Yeah, I'll be fine._

* * *

Fridays are a tangled mess. It's free period.

Studied silence.

A symphony of sound.

You're fucked up, it's going around.

You wait in the bathroom. Everything he does is scheduled, planned and you're glad. At least you know what to expect.

You fiddle with your pencil, tapping against the dirty floor and then he's there. You watch him walk in. He's pretending not to notice you, but you certainly notice him. One of his eyes is black and blue and there's a cut on his eyebrow that may or not heal. You hope it messes up his perfect skin forever.

"Watch where you're clawing next time." He's staring in the mirror. Of course. You wonder what it's like to be that vain.

"No," You tilt your head. "I don't think I will."

"Fuck you."

"Been there, done that."

He decides to that. There's the sound of the faucet turning and water pouring. And silence. Which is great. Whatever.

"Your stomach still hurt?"

No. But that's because you spent two hours yesterday throwing up after you got detention for fighting. It was pure agony and you wasted three hours hating him. God, you hate him.

"Not really."

Disappointment slides into his tone. He's a sadist. "I'll have to try something different next time."

Yeah, because there'll be a next time.

"Are we going to sit her and chat or are you going to get on with it?"

"Fine."

And then he's pulling you into the stall and you hate this part because he's the epitome of smooth and you're an awkward kid who wears band t-shirts and likes musicals. It's so cliché.

Sometimes he gets off on getting you off which is hilarious, but you've never made fun of him for it because you suck at blow jobs. And, no, not the good kind.

"What are you thinking about?"

It's embarrassing but you sometimes you can't help loving him a bit. It's mostly because you can't feel so passionate about another human being and not love them a little.

Yeah, he's a dick, but he's not the worst thing out there and you hate yourself more than you hate him.

And that's why you're finished with it all. Game over. It's not worth it. None of it. There's nothing that you want to stick around for because there _isn't anything for you to stick around for._

So when he looks you, you shake your head. "Nothing."

* * *

Post- it note on the sink:

_If I'm still alive after this then I totally didn't do it right._


End file.
